The Perils of Being Famous On The Internet
by Grav
Summary: James will tell anyone who stands still long enough how useless most of modern technology is.


**AN**: I don't know why, but James Watson brings out the _worst_ in me. Oh, and I kind of got the prompt from **Penknife**, but it was already something that had crossed my mind.

**Spoilers**: Again, that would require a plot.

**Rating**: T+ (hints of slash, I guess? Also, I make fun of "House".)

**Disclaimer**: At this point, they're probably _lucky_ I have nothing to do with it.

**Summary**: James will tell anyone who stands still long enough how useless most of modern technology is.

* * *

**The Perils of Being Famous on the Internet**

James will tell anyone who stands still long enough how useless most of modern technology is. He enjoys going on about the impersonal nature of modern communications and how easily accessible it is to someone with the right know-how. He's been living with the same identity for more than a century now, and he's not keen on having it displayed for any idiot with an Ethernet card. No, he prefers letters on paper, movies without sound (and only if there isn't a play available), and paying in cash.

He would, therefore, rather die than admit to have a small fascination with Googling himself.

Not _himself_, of course. Helen saw to it that James Watson is kept highly classified. For starters, his portable longevity device would attract far too much attention if he started posting pictures of himself all over the internet, and he has no interest in explaining to the medical community that the technology cannot be duplicated (because he'd designed it specifically to be impossible to copy).

Instead, James Googles the persona Doyle so lovingly created for him: Sherlock Holmes. He's a bit surprised at first to see that the character is as famous at the beginning of the 21st century as he was at the end of 19th. It's quite flattering, actually, to see all the TV specials and movies that are made about him (the character, of course, not James himself). He actually stoops so low as to watch an episode of a show called "House", clearly based on the Holmesian model, but turns it off before the second commercial break after one too many medical inaccuracies are portrayed on screen.

It's "House", however, that leads to his discovery of fanfiction. Apparently there are hundred of people with nothing better to do than write stories about House and Wilson having sex with one another (amongst other things, apparently, though a few unfortunate clicks of the mouse send him flying back to safer pages). Deciding it cannot possible be worse, he types "Sherlock Holmes fanfiction" into the Google tool bar, and is immediately overwhelmed by the number of hits.

He is surprised to learn that despite both Holmes and Watson having canonical love interests, the bulk of the stories are written about the two of them carrying on in way that James knows for a fact was illegal at the time. He knows, of course, because he went to great pains to conceal similar parts of his personality from society at large. Doyle, naturally, removed all semblance of his sexuality from the stories, which is to say he did nothing of the sort, but James always felt perfectly comfortable telling people that he was the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes.

It does explain his early misunderstandings with Declan, though.

What really annoys him, though, besides reading terribly written sex scenes about the character _based_ on him and the character _named_ for him, are the rampant historical inaccuracies and poorly conceived casework that permeates most of the stories. He finds himself getting more and more angry at the faceless horde of so-called writers, that before long he cannot resist submitting one of his own stories to an archive. It's a simple enough tale, one from a case that he doubts anyone has ever heard of, despite the seemingly all-knowing reputation of Wikipedia, and he copies it very nearly word for word out his diary (the case part, of course. The sex he is forced to come up with on his own, and even though it very nearly kills him to admit it, it's kind of a turn on when he's done).

The story is a massive hit. He is flooded with emails telling him how good his grasp of the characters is, how his ability to recreate that Victorian feeling is unmatched, how British he sounds (and he's tempted to print that one off and frame it, except then someone in his office might find out), how excellently balanced his casework and character development (by which they mean sex) are, and how much everyone would like a sequel. James has always been the obliging type, so he digs out another diary and submits a second story.

Everything goes swimmingly, until Helen and Ashley Magnus stop in for they're quarterly visit. In hindsight, he should have known it was too good to last.

Helen waits until Ashley has excused herself to accompany Declan to go and take a look at their new projectile net firing apparatus before she makes her move. She pulls a folder, plain and innocuous like all the others, out of her briefcase, and looks at him accusingly.

"You understand, James, that I went to a lot of trouble to guarantee your anonymity?" she says. "And how difficult that is in this day and age."

"Of course, Helen," he replies, with no idea of where the conversation is headed. "Not being reduced to a series of numbers or a judged by my credit rating is very important to me, and I am grateful for your efforts to that end. "

"Then I'm hoping you can explain this." She throws the folder down on his desk with a bit more force than is necessary. A few of the pages slide out of it, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he recognizes the site design of the website where he has posted his stories.

"I've no idea," he says, after thumbing through the pages and using the time to ensure that when he speaks, it will be at his normal speaking levels, and not some graceless high pitched squeak.

"Oh, come now, James!" Helen says. "Don't be coy with me! You wrote this, didn't you?"

"Certainly not!" James says it so vehemently that for a moment he nearly believes himself. "And I can't believe you read pornography on the internet! What if Ashley were to find it in the browser history? Most of it isn't even well written!"

He knows the moment the last sentence leaves his mouth that he's said too much. Her grin can only be described as salacious, and he realizes that she was only feigning annoyance to rile him up.

"I don't believe you're telling me the truth," she nearly purrs. She is going to blackmail him with this for the rest of his life. He can see it in her eyes.

"You'll never prove it," he says stiffly.

"I don't have to, Jimmy," she replies. "I just have to offer to show it to Declan. He's a big Sherlock Holmes fan himself, you know."

"You wouldn't!" Except he's almost entirely sure she would.

"Not until I need something, anyway," she agrees, snatching the folder away from him and putting it back in her briefcase. "Shall we go down to dinner? I'm looking forward to telling Ashley about the projectile net we'll be acquiring."

Helpless, he follows her out of the room.

The next morning, he deletes everything. Right after he prints off copies and tucks them into his diary. There's no need for it to be a complete wash, after all.

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**fin**

Gravity_Not_Included, January 16, 2011**  
**


End file.
